


Vermont Autumn

by impalawinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Dean, F/M, One-Sided Attraction, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 07:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13230684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalawinchester/pseuds/impalawinchester
Summary: You and Dean run into each other on the road, but even when Dean offers you everything you want, you're the one pulling the vanishing act.





	Vermont Autumn

Every time you were together, you were waiting for him to vanish. You only saw each other for short, sporadic intervals in the expanse of your lives. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him, it was that you were unwilling to pick up the phone and ask if he was near Indiana, because you were, and your motel room felt empty and cold without his stupid jokes and shampoo bottle on the shower’s edge – because that would come across as lonely. 

And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to see you, at least that’s what you thought. Every time you did run into each other he reminded you that you were the only person he could talk to about the things that hurt without them hurting. So you took that as a sign. You clung to that hope. 

You had known each other for eons, ever since the vamp nest back in Utah in the heat of summer some twelve years ago. Back then, you were new to the life, new to the adrenaline rushes and blood splatters and your clothes were still free of mystery monster stains. Back then, his face was less tired, less aged, and he still wore his father’s leather jacket. 

You had both grown up on the road, on crappy diner food and cheap liquor and the same playlists of Zeppelin and REO Speedwagon and the same few tattered copies of favorite books at night (Vonnegut mostly) and the same scene of motel rooms in the middle of the heartland. You were much alike, the two of you, yet that didn’t matter, in the lives you lived. A connection meant nothing to demons. If anything, it would encourage them to rip out your throat sooner. 

But that day – it was October, it was Vermont, it was a shifter hiding out in the woods, and you and Dean had stumbled upon the same case coincidentally. A happy coincidence, according to you. He’d already done the interviews and some research by the time you’d arrived. So you took it out that night swiftly: yourself, Dean, and his brother Sam.

Celebratory drinks were shared at the local bar. But you didn’t drink that day – you were too afraid of your guard slipping, of things that go bump in the night taking advantage. But Dean was smashed. When you walked out of the bar in the middle of the night (his brother still inside), he was stumbling in his charming, goofy way, and you crossed your arms tightly to keep out some of the chill. It wasn’t yet winter, but Vermont had dipped down into the 20s. 

He turned to face you and smirked, and although you could only see a vague outline of his face from the scattered front lights, you found yourself smirking back. Your breaths puffed out in grey swirls just in front of your faces. 

“C’mon, I’ll drive you,” you said. 

“I can drive,” he slurred and teetered towards his car, “I’m not going in your car, (Y/N).” 

“What’s wrong with my car?” 

“It’s yellow and it’s a Volkswagen.” He attempted to open the Impala’s door, but it was locked. Instead, he slumped against the hood, neck exposed to the cold, nose tilted up towards the trees and stars beyond in exasperation. 

“You don’t have your keys, Dean, I gave them to Sam.” And with that you linked your arm with his and pulled him away from his Impala and towards your car. He grumbled as he got in, slouched against the door as you took off down the winding roads of rural Vermont towards the motel – the long way back, around the lake. You wanted to savor your time with the older Winchester. You didn't get much of it. 

You came to a stretch of open road, flat and straight, and the area around was open fields, dark with the heavy night. The lake was up ahead, and the road curved against its edge. You cracked the window, let your fingers slip out the top to catch some of the breeze, felt the enormous, gusty sky swirling around the car. You swerved a bit with one hand on the wheel and the wind pushing at the side of the car, but it didn’t matter: the road was empty anyway. 

But Dean reached over and took the other side of the wheel. 

“You’re gonna crash the damn car.” 

“Seems like you’d be happy if this thing went up in flames.” 

“Not if I’m in it,” he said. He burped and shifted his weight, flicking on the radio. Static met him, so he flipped through the station until he got to a county music station. Johnny Cash seeped out of the speakers into the cab, coated in a layer of interference, and as the music rumbled along, the car continued until the lake was near the road. You slowed, wanting to stop, but were going to pass the opportunity before Dean opposed. 

“Pull over.” 

You did, so the car was facing out towards the dark lake. The only illumination was the starry sky above, which, though bright and clustered in the heavens, did little to break the darkness around you. 

Dean got out of the car, walked around to the front and leaned on the hood. You followed, crossing your arms again against the cold. Dean tilted his head back again, gazed up at the sky. He glanced over and discovered you watching him. Chuckled at the attention. 

“Shut up,” you said. But you were smiling, too. You found yourself unable to look away, to look at the stars with Dean, because again you felt that nagging feeling of loneliness – that soon he’d vanish and you’d be alone on the road again. And you did this every time: tried to memorize his face, the way his hands held a knife, the way he spoke to you. You wouldn't admit it, but you loved him. So damn much it hurt.

“Sammy and I stop to look at the stars, sometimes. When we have a couple days between cases.” 

“Dean Winchester gazing at the stars? I wouldn’t believe it unless I was seeing it.” But you were really thinking about the luxury of having a brother to lean on, who carries you when you can’t walk any farther, who watches the stars with you when driving another mile conjures thoughts of suicide, who stitches up wounds – literally – when you’re hurt. Of what's it's like to have someone who loves you. That last time you felt love was years and years ago. 

“You shouldn’t hunt on your own,” he said. 

“Please. I’m not some helpless girl,” you said. It sent flashes of hot anger through you to think that Dean thought of you as less. You hadn’t taken on Lucifer, admittedly, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t do your job. 

“And it’s not like I have anyone to hunt with anyway,” you continued, allowing yourself the indulgence. Later you could pretend that Dean offered you to stay with him and Sammy to hunt, that he said those three magic words. You could pretend he hadn’t vanished, like always, pretend that you didn’t suffer for days each time you said goodbye. Pretend that you were okay on your own.

“There’s no guy waiting somewhere for you? No other hunters?” Dean asked. Your eyes moved from the stars back down to Dean. He was pulling apart your stitches too soon, even though it had been over a decade. You pushed away thoughts of your life prior to what you knew now. Maybe he could talk about what hurt, but you couldn’t. 

“No. I’m on my own, and I doubt that’ll change.” It wouldn’t change – you knew that for certain. That boy who had been your fiance, your parents, your little sister – that was all gone now. Lost to you by years, and even your memories of them were faded and gray as a motel bed. You didn't even have any hunter friends besides Dean. 

“If you, uh, you know. If you wanted to crash for a while, Sam and me found this bunker in Kansas. You could stay. Sam needs someone to talk about nerdy stuff with,” Dean said. You smiled. 

“Yeah? So Sam wants me to stick around?” He scratched the back of his head. You willed him to say the words you so desperately wanted to hear.

“It’d be good to know you’re safe.” 

“It never mattered before,” you found yourself saying. 

It was true. Dean didn’t check in, neither did Sam. You heard of them every so often, through other hunters, to suffice as your reassurance they weren’t dead. There were times you’d been driving yourself to the hospital bleeding out from some fucked-up hunt and you wondered what would happen if you laid down and died. Would news circulate? Would the Winchester brothers hear about your death, wish they’d been there to watch your body go up in flames?

Dean looked away. 

“It mattered. It’s just that people around me get hurt. And it seemed safer…”

“If I was across the country?” you finished. He looked back over. 

“I’m no good at this. But Sam and me, we’ve lost everyone. And it’s on me.” You didn’t argue. Dean never was specific when he talked about the dog days. 

“What are you trying to say?” He sighed. You waited. Waited for him to vanish like he always did, or waited for him to say what you wanted to hear. To say something like that and then turn around and act like he hadn’t said anything at all. 

“I’m trying to say that when you’re in the wind, all I do is worry. And if you were at the bunker then I could make sure you were safe.” 

He shook his head. You watched him. 

“I haven't been there for you, I know that. But I want to make it up to you.” Guilt clouded his face. Not love. It hurt more than you could've ever imagined. 

You reached out, touched his arm. 

“You’re drunk. Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you said, and you got back into the driver’s seat. Dean didn’t move, not until you turned the car back on, flicked on the headlights. It was then that he finally joined you. 

You brought him back to his room (you were staying at the same motel), opened the door for him and left out some aspirin on the bedside table. Dean was collapsed on the bed, still in his boots, snoring softly. The open door banged against the wall from the wind, so you turned and walked out and closed it behind you. You’d be miles away by the time he woke up. And maybe you’d run into each other again, or maybe if you saw the Impala you’d skip through the town and hope to go unnoticed. Maybe you’d never speak again. 

But that night, that autumn night in Vermont, you were gone in the wind while the Winchester slept in the shitty motel room, and he’d wake up and for once, you’d be the one pulling the vanishing act.


End file.
